


already a bit drunken (a little bit confused)

by aalphard



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Drunken Confessions, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Minor Sexual Content, Not Beta Read, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27227470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aalphard/pseuds/aalphard
Summary: What even is time, when he looks up with a blissed-out expression, eyelids heavy and wet lashes, lips parted in all of their puffy, red glory. He looks the most beautiful like this, Kiyoomi thinks, body and soul at Kiyoomi’s mercy. What even is time, when seconds bleed into hours and Kiyoomi no longer knows if it’s still night or if the sun has risen already, when hours pass by in a single second, when Atsumu holds him close and urges him to kiss him again and again and again until there’s no more Kiyoomi, no more Atsumu, but KiyoomiandAtsumu when together like this.or with miya atsumu being the way he is, there's no way it could've been any different.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 52
Kudos: 626





	already a bit drunken (a little bit confused)

**Author's Note:**

> based on this dialogue prompt:
>
>> "are you single?"
>> 
>> "we've been dating for a year."

_already_ _  
a bit drunken  
i found you  
  
and with  
your green eyes  
your honest smile  
combined with  
the small distance  
between us  
and your smell  
  
you intoxicated me  
even more_

_([by mrs. anybody on hellopoetry)](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3736127/a-little-bit-confused-65/)_

* * *

Kiyoomi refuses to be held accountable for the mess unfolding in front of him.

It’s not his fault his friends and teammates are dumbasses, it’s not his fault they can’t stomach alcohol and it’s most definitely not his fault that Miya Atsumu is the way he is. Miya Atsumu, the inconsistent, petty, annoying, frustratingly handsome hurricane who on a regular basis makes teasing him his sole purpose, who seemingly never shuts up and has the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen. Miya Atsumu, the grown man who cries when watching old Disney movies, the grown man who could kill with his bare hands, wrapping long and skilled fingers around one’s neck and grip it in the same way he grips a volleyball. Miya Atsumu, who sometimes smiles like the Cheshire cat when he has something on his mind, who sticks his tongue out a lot, especially when he’s whining in the mornings because _my bed is too comfy, I don’ wanna move_. Miya Atsumu, who holds the entire world in his palms, who has the ability to crush it or bring it back from the very depths of hell. Miya Atsumu, who has the most alluring eyes, the face of someone who holds a tremendous power over anyone who dares to glance in his direction.

And with Miya Atsumu being Miya Atsumu, Kiyoomi can’t be faulted for finding him endearing and annoying at the same time, for following his every step with his eyes, for looking around the room to see if he’s there. He can’t be faulted for finding him down-right attractive and perhaps for wanting a bit more than that when he was always clinging to him and whispering so many sweet and malicious words in his ears, for dragging his nails in an agonizingly slow pace down his back. He can’t be faulted for falling for him, for wanting to kiss him and doing exactly that after a few weeks of discomfort at the bottom of his stomach, for wanting to hold him in every possible way, for wanting to taste him and have his smell permanently etched into his skin.

His point is that Miya Atsumu is a lot of things and the one that’s gotten him into this mess is the fact that he has a very low tolerance to alcohol and everyone knows that. Maybe that’s why his teammates decided to celebrate their victory with alcohol, maybe that’s why they made him drink a bit more than his body could take, maybe they just hated Kiyoomi, who knows. It’s not his fault his friends are dumbasses, it’s not his fault Atsumu is staring at him with a soft, silly grin and it’s definitely not his fault that his heart is on the brink of an explosion.

It all starts with a few shots.

It starts with a slurred tongue and soft giggles as they wrapped their arms around each other’s shoulders, as they praised each other for their scores and whatever else they could think of, starting with _how pretty your eyes are_ to _I think you’d be great in bed, you know?_ , and Kiyoomi could only snicker when suspicious eyes rolled from Atsumu towards him and flocked back when all he did was arch an eyebrow. It wasn’t a secret that they were together, it had never been, not when Atsumu would proudly wear purple bruises on his neck and wrap his arms around Kiyoomi’s waist, resting his head softly on his shoulder.

It starts with Atsumu blinking suggestively at him, getting up and taking stumbling steps towards him. It starts with a low _what do you say we get out of here, Omi-kun?_ and a soft pat on his shoulder, a wink and a bitten lip. It starts with Atsumu waving goodbye and a ruckus coming from the counter, the small crowd of sweaty, drunk men whistling and giggling like the bunch of twelve-year-olds they were inside.

_Take me home, Omi._

Kiyoomi refuses to take responsibility for the sprawled out Miya Atsumu on top of his bed, for the satisfied grin on his face as Kiyoomi takes off his trousers and shirt, as he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively before bursting into giggles again. What comes out of his mouth in response is a sigh as he shakes his head and hurriedly adverts his gaze from the trail of fading bruises leading down, down, down, all the way down until they disappear somewhere under his boxers because that brings back some memories Kiyoomi would rather not think about as he undresses him, thank you very much.

To be honest, he never really expected this thing with Atsumu to grow this big, the playful bantering, the teasing and suggestive innuendos that suddenly turned into soft whispers in the morning and sweet, forehead kisses and slow movements as one rolled on top of the other, low giggles with hoarse voices and whines when their alarm went off. _I want to spend an entire day on you_ , he’d say, _and I want you on me and in me and everything in between_ , he’d say. It wasn’t like this before – holding hands made him sweat, the mere thought of touching his lips made him shiver. It wasn’t soft or warm, it was weird and uncomfortable and surely something he wasn’t even sure he wanted.

But he did, he does.

“I bet you didn’t want to be in bed with me tonight, Omi” he says with a soft giggle.

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply, looking at him through his lashes.

Atsumu isn’t looking at him, but at the ceiling, blinking slowly as his hands play with the sheets around his head. He looks good spread out like that, skin glowing almost golden, his hair a laurel wreath around his head and if Kiyoomi wasn’t already used to the sight, he would’ve fainted. Faded purplish bruises are scattered around his stomach, around his thighs, along with a few pinkish, somewhat fresh ones encircling them and Kiyoomi can’t help the adrenaline from flooding his veins because he remembers the exact moment he made each one of them, he remembers every sound and every movement, the way Atsumu fisted the sheets and threw his head back oh-so-many-times with a silent scream of his name.

“I feel like your standards are way too high,” he blabbers. “I could never reach them.”

_You could._

_You have._

“I’m glad we’re already living together and I don’t need to do anything to grab your attention anymore. It’s such a hassle. And come on, I’m a great roommate.”

Now it’s Kiyoomi’s turn to laugh because _you don’t even have to try_ , is what he wants to say. He’s not sure when it happened, that sudden grip on his heart, the weight on his shoulders – he doesn’t know if it happened when Atsumu first smiled at him or when he first started calling him so casually as if they had always been glued to the hip, the best friends in the world. Maybe it happened when Kiyoomi finally allowed Atsumu to touch him, taping his fingers carefully because _we don’t want you to get injured, your wrists are already freaky enough._ Or maybe it happened when they decided to grab dinner after everyone had already left – _come on, Omi, I’ll treat you tonight._

“Come here.”

Kiyoomi does, climbing on top of him with a smirk on his face. “Yes?”

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks in nothing more than a whisper.

Atsumu’s cheeks are suddenly enveloped in a soft pink hue, his eyelids seemingly too heavy, fluttering up and down, his mouth hanging open and his fingers digging into the sheets. He looks mesmerized, as if he’s staring at the world’s most beautiful work of art, as if he could get lost in everything Kiyoomi means and maybe Kiyoomi is thinking the same thing about the pools of liquid gold inside his eyes, the three thousand shades of yellow blended in a single being, something born out of a million carefully calculated brushstrokes.

“Whatever you want.” Kiyoomi replies with a soft smile.

“I think I love you.”

He wants to laugh, he really does. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “I love your eyes and the way they get darker when you’re excited about something. I think it’s endearing.”

“Are you really drunk?” Kiyoomi asks with a chuckle.

Atsumu hums. “I feel like ‘m floating.”

“You had a bit too much to drink today.” Kiyoomi tells him as he brushes a lock of golden away from his forehead. “You must be tired from all the screaming you guys did earlier. Can you sit up so I can help you get into your pajamas?”

“Don’t wanna.”

Of course not.

Besides being everything he is, Miya Atsumu is also a brat, but an especially annoying one after he drinks. He’s clingy and whiny and silly, humming and whispering embarrassing things he wouldn’t dare to say otherwise. Kiyoomi might brush it off with a shrug and a frown, he might pretend he doesn’t enjoy it, but the cheeky hands and suggestive smiles get to him, tugging on his heartstrings and making him unable to think about anything other than him and his stupid giggle and the stupid hair and the stupid face and the fact that he fits so, so well against Kiyoomi’s body under the blankets, clinging to him for dear life as he falls deep inside a whirlpool of dreams Kiyoomi knows nothing about.

“What do you want to do, then?”

Atsumu closes his eyes and smiles. “I want to look into your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you,” it rolls easily on his tongue and he giggles. “Can you tell me you love me?”

Kiyoomi laughs. Out of all the things Miya Atsumu was, insecure was the one thing he never thought he’d use to describe him, the one word that didn’t seem to fit with golden laurel wreaths and plump lips, with the endless smirks and snarky comments. Out of all the things Miya Atsumu was and all the things he did, vulnerable was the one thing Kiyoomi never thought he’d see plaguing warm, hazel eyes; the one thing he never thought he’d see wrapping around his throat and making him unable to do the simplest chores, but as he’s come to know, Miya Atsumu hides a lot.

He hides his fears and worries, he hides his deepest thoughts and every little insecurity that makes him crumble down when he’s alone in their bedroom, tucked in under a mountain of warm, fluffy blankets – and Kiyoomi is the only one he allows inside, Kiyoomi is the one he melts against, Kiyoomi is the one who kisses all of that away and accepts him in his entirety without any need for secrets.

“I love you.” Kiyoomi replies in a soft voice.

“Hm,” Atsumu hums, a smile tugging at his lips. “You wouldn’t, though. Why would you choose me? Out of everyone in the world, right? Why choose the person who makes you life a living hell? It’s funny. You wouldn’t choose me. Not that I’m bad or anything, but you could definitely do better than me.”

Another thing about Miya Atsumu people don’t really know about: he tends to ramble when he’s drunk or tired. He talks about things he’d rather keep hidden most of the time, he talks about his worries and every little thought that crosses his mind, even if they’re not the most appropriate or sane.

Kiyoomi laughs. “Are you telling me to go find someone else?”

“I didn’t say that,” he pouts, finally opening his eyes. “Your eyes are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” he laughs. “So are yours.”

Atsumu shakes his head. “Yours are better than mine.”

The words are slurred and almost unintelligible, he gulps and takes deep breaths to steady himself. Kiyoomi smiles at him, softly stroking his cheeks with his thumbs, watching as he blushes and his eyelids flutter down, closing his eyes, long lashes tickling his hands. It’s only in moments like these, Kiyoomi thinks, that Atsumu allows himself to be pampered and cared for, only in moments like these that he actually leans in and melts against his touch, forgetting all about reservations and the thousand walls he puts up around him. Miya Atsumu, Kiyoomi has learned, has this bad habit of keeping things to himself, of doing everything he could to give Kiyoomi the space he needed when things got bad, of putting everyone’s needs before his own, of crumbling down in silence because it would be too much of a hassle to reach out to someone. Kiyoomi knows.

Atsumu has a tendency of leaning against his touch as he sleeps, of curling up against him and softly nuzzling the sensitive skin of his neck, mumbling random words Kiyoomi can’t recognize in his sleepy haze. He has a tendency of rolling over and resting his head softly on Kiyoomi’s chest, of wrapping one arm around his stomach and sighing in relief when Kiyoomi hugs him back.

“How long have you known I’ve been in love with you?” he asks in a whisper, as if he’s scared of the answer, as if he’d never meant for these words to come out at all.

Kiyoomi grins. “Was it supposed to be a secret?”

He nods. “I didn’t want to tell you. You could have much better than me.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

And even if there are tears flooding his eyes, Atsumu smiles at him, a faint blush spreading through his cheeks. Even if he closes his eyes and gulps down a sob, Kiyoomi knows what’s going through his head. He lets out a soft chuckle and a lonely, stubborn tear slides down, making its way through his cheek, all the way down to his neck until it finally jumps towards the abyss.

Kiyoomi stares at him, his fingers softly resting on his hair. There are days, Kiyoomi thinks, that Atsumu is the one standing on top of him and softly touching his face, wiping away the tears he refuses to set free. There are days Kiyoomi is the one being held so tenderly, shaking and sobbing, clinging to him as if Atsumu is the one thing in the world that still makes sense when his brain shuts down and everything is suddenly too much. But there are days, days like these, where Atsumu is the one being held, when he’s the one on the verge of tears, blabbering nonsensical sentences and waiting for a rejection that will never come.

“You’re great.” Kiyoomi tells him.

“I’m glad you chose me.” Kiyoomi tells him.

“I’ve never wanted anyone else.” Kiyoomi tells him.

Atsumu doesn’t reply, eyes wide and mouth open, silent tears dragging themselves across his face, his fingers letting go of the sheets to grab Kiyoomi’s shirt instead. Atsumu’s nails dig into his skin as if he’s scared to let go, as if he fears Kiyoomi will disappear if he lets go, as if this is nothing more than a drunken dream and he dreads the thought of waking up.

“Come on,” he says, finally. Atsumu’s nails are still digging into his skin, his eyes are still glued to Kiyoomi’s, and more tears fall from his eyes. “Let’s get you into your pajamas and we can get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he pleads with a sob.

Here’s the worst thing about Miya Atsumu: it takes a lot to break him down, but once he’s lying on the ground, shattered to his very core, it’s very difficult to put his pieces back together. Kiyoomi shakes his head, a soft smile tugging at his lips while he takes his thumbs to Atsumu’s cheeks again, wiping away the trails his tears made. He dips his head down and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. Atsumu almost mewls, eyes closing involuntarily, mouth shut so tight it’s become nothing more than a straight line and all of a sudden, Kiyoomi feels his own heart shattering inside his chest.

He looks wrecked, cheeks red and tainted with dried tears, wet lashes and a runny nose.

It might’ve been because of the alcohol, it might’ve been because of the tears or it might’ve been because of whatever else he’d been keeping inside, hidden from everything and everyone, the kind of thing he might’ve thought would make people hate him, cast him aside and never spare a single glance in his direction ever again. Kiyoomi lets his lips linger, tasting the sweat on his skin, hissing at the nails digging even further into his arms.

And he whispers softly against his skin. “I’d never lie to you.”

“But you are.” Atsumu replies with a choked sob.

_I’m here if you want me to be_ , Kiyoomi wants to tell him just like he’s told him a million times before, when the mere thought of holding his hand made Kiyoomi sick to his stomach. _We don’t have to do things we don’t want to_ , Atsumu told him once, a reassuring smile breaking his lips apart. _Tell me what you want_ , he wants to tell him. _Do you want me to go or do you want me to hold you? Do you want me to kiss the tears away or just wipe them off?_

In the end, he doesn’t say anything. He presses another kiss to Atsumu’s forehead, and then another and another, until there are no more nails digging into his skin, until Atsumu is nothing but putty in his hands, until he’s sighing and letting his eyelids flutter down, finally, as he whispers a soft _I love you, I really do._

“And I love you.” Kiyoomi tells him. “You’re not _that_ drunk, it’s not like you can’t remember.”

“Are you single?” is what Atsumu asks him in response.

Now, Kiyoomi has two choices.

He can either laugh, tell him he’s being an idiot and pick him up against his will to _finally_ get him into his pajamas and tuck him in for the night _or_ he can try to argue, try to prove a point, telling him over and over again that _yes,_ they are in fact together and this drunken confession wasn’t really a confession, that Kiyoomi knows everything there is to know about him, even the things he doesn’t realize himself, that he doesn’t mind the tears and the snot if it means that Atsumu is trusting him to see a side of him he doesn’t want anyone else to see.

But the thing is: seeing Atsumu with tear-stained cheeks and plump, red lips makes Kiyoomi’s heart clench painfully inside his chest and all he wants is to let his body fall onto the mattress – or, in this case, onto Atsumu – and wrap his arms around the man under him, whispering everything he wants to hear, everything that will make the tears stop.

Kiyoomi decides, then, to make room for a third choice. He’ll laugh and he’ll tell him he’s being an idiot but he won’t pick him up, he won’t get him into his pajamas and tuck him in. Instead, he’ll laugh and tell him he’s being an idiot and he won’t _try_ to convince his drunk boyfriend that they’ve been together for all this time, but he’ll make him acknowledge it by himself instead. With eyes wide and mouth hanging open, Atsumu is still staring at him with a huge question mark floating above his head, with arched eyebrows and a silent question floating in-between them, _are you single?_ , because apparently alcohol made Atsumu lose his memories, too.

“You’re a fucking dumbass, did you know that?” he asks with a chuckle, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “You tell me that a lot.”

He does.

“That still doesn’t answer my question, Omi.”

His words are a mess, rolling for way too long on his tongue, coming out weird and choked as if he wasn’t even sure he wanted to get them out. His eyes are red and puffy and he’s pouting the most adorable pout Kiyoomi has ever seen, with the most endearing expression in the world and all of a sudden it clicks inside his head – Atsumu doesn’t pout unless he’s really upset, wrapped up in a tight cocoon made out of his blankets, unless he has something he doesn’t really want to talk about, something that shakes him to his very core, something that breaks up his every defense.

And Kiyoomi finds out.

Atsumu is jealous.

He laughs again, letting his head rest on Atsumu’s shoulders as his fingers play with a strand of golden locks. Atsumu huffs and gulps, his hands sliding up to take hold of Kiyoomi’s shirt again, to dig his fingernails into the cloth, making him unable to move. Not that he wanted to, not that he would have, but Atsumu didn’t seem to know that, latching onto him like his life depended on it. Atsumu smells like alcohol and cologne, like the expensive shampoo he started buying last month and Kiyoomi.

“You’re a fucking dumbass,” he tells him again.

“Don’t call me that.”

“I call you a dumbass all the time, though?” Kiyoomi chuckles before pressing a kiss to his shoulder, to the side of his neck, to his cheek. And he props himself onto his elbows again before staring straight into teary hazel eyes. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“You’re making fun of me because I’m drunk,” he whines. “And I’m not going to remember this so you’ll have a lot of material to make fun of me later on.”

“I thought I was already making fun of you.”

“You are.”

Kiyoomi laughs. “And I’ll make fun of you later on, too?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you like to see me suffer, I don’t know.”

It’s a hassle to deal with Miya Atsumu, that’s not a secret – and it’s even worse to deal with a drunk Miya Atsumu who, apparently, loses all sorts of recent memories when the alcohol settles in his bloodstream. Kiyoomi snorts, shakes his head and dips his head down again, his lips softly tracing the corners of his jaw, all the way down his neck and up again to nibble on his ear. Atsumu lets go of his shirt, hands falling lifeless on the mattress, mouth hanging open and a faint huff escaping through parted lips.

He knows this face all too well, knows the kind of voice this face brings along, knows the pain from the scratches and the taste of the blood escaping through a crack in their lips when their teeth decide to go on an adventure in the not-so-foreign lands of each other’s skin, softly or menacingly, scraping or digging inside so hard it breaks. Kiyoomi knows everything there is to know about Miya Atsumu and it’s still not enough – there’s this hunger boiling in his system, this desire to bend him over and taste him oh-so-many times before he breaks, before he yelps and pleads, before everything and anything he knows is Kiyoomi’s name, choked out through chapped lips, through a hoarse throat and teary eyes.

But not today.

“I already told you I love you.”

“You could,” he almost sobs when Kiyoomi’s teeth graze at the sensitive skin on his neck. “You could be lying.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

Atsumu doesn’t speak for a few seconds. “Because you like seeing me miserable?”

_Ha._

“Fair enough,” he replies with another brush of his lips to Atsumu’s neck. “But not this time.”

Kiyoomi stares at him, at the thousands of warm shades swirling around, blending into each other in an explosion of tones he’s never seen before. Time turns to syrup, sticky and everlasting, his eyes unable to look away and suddenly he’s melting against Atsumu, being dragged in, in, in, until there’s no more _him_ , no more Atsumu, but only the mess they make when each drop feeds into the next and then the one after that, when he lifts up his arm and touches Kiyoomi’s chin and brings him closer because they’re not properly mixed yet, not as they should, and Kiyoomi smiles into the kiss, soft and chaste and not at all like the last ones they shared. What the fuck even is time, minutes turning to hours and then crumbling down in another second or two, what the fuck even is space, when Atsumu spreads his legs and pulls him even closer than before and he’s melting all over again.

He’s the one toying with him, Kiyoomi thinks, he’s the one who holds the power, always has been. Miya Atsumu, as Kiyoomi has come to know, has the power to make his knees weak with a single glance, with a soft whisper and a ghost touch. He grabs him and makes him dance around his little finger and Kiyoomi doesn’t even care, not anymore. He bends himself in every direction Atsumu urges him to, he laughs and he cries, he kisses and bites, he caresses and slaps – because everything Atsumu wants, Atsumu gets. That’s the kind of person he is and Kiyoomi would be lying if he said it wasn’t thrilling.

“’Tsumu,” he calls in a whisper.

What even is time, when he looks up with a blissed-out expression, eyelids heavy and wet lashes, lips parted in all of their puffy, red glory. He looks the most beautiful like this, Kiyoomi thinks, body and soul at Kiyoomi’s mercy. What even is time, when seconds bleed into hours and Kiyoomi no longer knows if it’s still night or if the sun has risen already, when hours pass by in a single second, when Atsumu holds him close and urges him to kiss him again and again and again until there’s no more Kiyoomi, no more Atsumu, but Kiyoomi _and_ Atsumu when together like this.

“’Tsumu,” he calls again.

“Hm?”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Atsumu widens his eyes. “Yeah…”

Kiyoomi thinks about teasing him, letting time drip its sticky substances all around them, drowning them in the everlasting longing for a word or maybe two or three, making Atsumu squirm in discomfort when it finally reaches his throat, when it forces its way in and settles inside his chest. Kiyoomi thinks about everything they could’ve been doing now if it hadn’t been for that fateful day where, _what the fuck even is time_ , Atsumu ran up to him and, almost dropping to his knees, asked him out for dinner. He remembers snickering, he remembers humming, he remembers the panic in warm, hazel eyes and the golden laurel wreaths swirling, almost taking flight when the wind reached them. _Okay_ , he’d said, and maybe Atsumu really did drop to his knees. _I can’t believe you said yes_ , he said. _I didn’t_ , Kiyoomi had replied. _I said okay._

Kiyoomi thinks about the bittersweet aftertaste of time drops, of the stickiness on the tip of their fingers when they first kissed and how much his brain yelled at him for every little thing that was now intruding, sliding down his throat and going inside, inside, inside, until there was nothing left of him but a mere reflection of the god standing before him in that dimly-lit living room. _Yes_ , he remembers thinking, _I don’t mind giving myself to you_. And maybe he did say that out loud and maybe Atsumu cried. Maybe.

And there were hungry kisses, there were soft ones; there were soft, gentle moves and hard, rough ones. There were purple bruises and soft teeth marks around their necks, around their thighs, the constant reminder of what happened between the four walls of their personal shrine. It’s not like Kiyoomi was possessive, not really, but something about Atsumu made him lose each and every last drop of composure and he just _wanted, wanted, wanted_ until there was nothing else to want, until there wasn’t a single atom he hadn’t already tasted – and yet, it still wasn’t enough.

Hungry kisses and bite marks, loud moans and hard scratches, the blood trickling down his back like the sweet drops of time sliding down their fingers, covering their whole bodies like the sweat that fell from his forehead straight into Atsumu’s back. Hands holding golden locks, pulling them and forcing him to bend over, bend down, roll onto his stomach, just about everything he could make him do and it still wasn’t enough. More bite marks and purple bruises, more teeth digging into flesh and breaking the skin. The taste of blood and the distinct taste of _them_ after everything was over. _I’ll have to cover these up_ , Atsumu liked to say. _And I_ , Kiyoomi laughed. _I won’t be able to take off my shirt._ Worth it.

“You said you love me,” Kiyoomi nuzzles into his neck.

“Yeah?”

“What if I told you,” a soft kiss to his chin. “That we’re actually dating already?”

Atsumu pouts, slapping his arm. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not?” he laughs. “Why would I lie to you?”

Atsumu seems to think about the question, to _seriously_ think about it. He furrows his brows, closes his eyes and shuts his mouth closed until his lips are, once again, nothing more than a straight line under his nose. Kiyoomi pressed another kiss to his chin and to the extension of his jawline, nibbling softly on his ear and sliding down, down, down, to that extra sensitive spot on his neck, the one just around his earlobe, and Atsumu almost whines when he scratches it with his teeth. “I don’t know”, is what he answers.

Kiyoomi laughs. “We’ve been dating for a year,” he says. “Almost two.”

“No, we’re not.”

Of course, because Miya Atsumu being Miya Atsumu wouldn’t just accept things as they come. Miya Atsumu being Miya Atsumu would need more than just words to be convinced that someone was actually speaking the truth. Funny, Kiyoomi thinks, because just a few minutes ago (or had it been hours already?) he’d been choking out sobs, he’d been tearing up and then kissing him, bringing him closer and closer as if this whole thing was nothing more than a delusional dream caused by the alcohol flooding his veins.

“We are,” Kiyoomi tells him. “And you’re the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if we were actually dating,” he pouts.

“I say it precisely _because_ we’re dating,” Kiyoomi laughs, his thumbs back on Atsumu’s cheeks, his eyes locking with soft, warm hazel and burning holes into them. “Is it really so hard to believe I chose you, too?”

It’s so soft Kiyoomi almost misses it, the small nod, the way Atsumu adverts his eyes and shuts his mouth again, his fingers trembling ever-so-slightly and Kiyoomi’s heart clenches painfully inside his chest. _Of course it would be_ , he thinks. Knowing him, knowing every little thing Atsumu tried so hard to keep hidden in a silver box at the back of his mind, knowing how badly he broke down sometimes, knowing everything – of course it would be.

“Look at me,” he asks with a soft voice, letting his head drop, their foreheads touching, their breaths melting into one. “Look at me, will you? Look into my eyes and tell me I’m lying when I say I love you.”

“I can’t” Atsumu whispers. “I don’t want to.”

“Yes, you do.”

And he _does_.

But he doesn’t move, his lips trembling, his fingers gripping at the sheets under his body, his whole body shaking and for a second or maybe three Kiyoomi just stares at him, blinking slowly as if his brain can’t comprehend the scene unfolding in front of him. Because _of course_ it would be like that, he thinks, and of course he would cry and confess a thousand times, of course it would seem like a bad joke, like Kiyoomi wasn’t doing anything other than following a scheme to make fun of him later on.

He’ll never let Atsumu taste another drop of alcohol, is what he thinks.

Slowly, he wraps his arms around Atsumu and flips them over, his back hitting the mattress with a soft _thud_. He tries to struggle, tries to leave, tries to make Kiyoomi let go of him – and fails. His cheeks are red, his arms lying lifeless around them, his eyes rolling from one side to the other as if he’s trying to find a way out of the prison Kiyoomi’s thrown him in. There’s not even a single way out, he thinks, not a single possibility of freeing himself. And Atsumu tries – he moves from one side to the other, he presses down on Kiyoomi’s body and he whines when all Kiyoomi does in response is tighten his hold on him.

And he kisses the tip of his nose. “I love you,” he says.

And he wipes away a lonely tear, kissing his cheek. “I love you,” he repeats.

And he nuzzles his neck oh, so softly it makes them both shudder. “I love you,” he says again.

“Okay,” is what Atsumu replies.

His eyes are hazy, even more than they were before and for a split second Kiyoomi almost thinks he’s gotten drunk again – on him, on everything they do, everything they mean. And _yes_ , he thinks, _that’s how it usually goes_ , because there’s absolutely nothing else in the world that makes them look like this if not for each other. Time, Kiyoomi thinks, falls in sticky droplets that wrap around them and makes them unable to move, to think, to _do_ and they just stare at each other for hours or maybe just a few minutes, whispering things only they can understand, humming along to the comfort and the harmony of an old love song no one else knows. Time, Kiyoomi thinks, makes them crumble down to their very essences only to bleed out and blend into a whirlpool of colors, tastes and sounds no one’s ever seen, tasted or heard before, and it’s Time that makes them build each other up again with soft whispers and chaste kisses, with reassuring hands and the words they’ve longed to hear for so, so long.

“Do you believe me?”

The golden laurel wreaths tickle Kiyoomi’s nose as he reaches forward to nuzzle the skin on his neck, to nibble on his ear yet again, to plant kisses all over his jawline, over his cheeks and back to the tip of his nose. He avoids his lips, staring straight into hazy eyes, smiling sweetly at him when Atsumu melts against him, his head falling forward and then to the side depending on Kiyoomi’s movements.

Atsumu doesn’t reply, only managing to nod softly, mouth hanging open when Kiyoomi’s teeth scrape along his neck, sliding up until they reach his chin, until they start playing with his bottom lip oh, so excruciatingly softly Atsumu almost faints. It’s fun, Kiyoomi thinks, to watch his unbecoming, to watch him melt into a puddle only to rise to his feet in all of his former glory, and even more than before. It’s more than fun, he thinks, it’s the most endearing, maddening, extraordinary and terrifying thing he’s ever done before and he can’t ever get enough of it, of the shadows and the afterglow, the way his voice changes from a choked out moan to a low, soft whimper, and then to everything so inherently Miya Atsumu, with the banter and the innuendos, with the teasing and the nicknames, with everything Kiyoomi could no longer see himself without.

“Are we really?” he asks in a whisper.

“Hm?”

“Dating,” his voice sounds like a child’s, pout and all, and Kiyoomi almost laughs.

He doesn’t reply, planting another kiss to the top of his head, unable to gulp down a chuckle when Atsumu almost purrs under his touch, letting his head fall to Kiyoomi’s shoulder, closing his eyes and smiling softly. He doesn’t try to leave Kiyoomi’s embrace, melting against him as if a magnetic force had glued them together, as if there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than inside this warm, comfortable hug.

It’s hard, this whole thing.

From the start of their relationship to the point they’re at now. It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment when everything started, from the shared, coy glances as teenagers and the jokes that attempted to hide everything under a dark cloak, a secret only they knew about. Kiyoomi doesn’t know when he started to pay attention to the soft shade of his eyes, to the way his hair fell over his forehead so effortlessly, how it glowed under the sun and blinded him for a few minutes or maybe hours. He doesn’t remember when he started thinking about him as _Atsumu_ rather than _Miya_ , as _‘Tsumu_ rather than _Atsumu_ , as everything he still hasn’t had the courage to say out loud rather than ‘Tsumu.

Being with Miya Atsumu means headaches and worries, means despair and every terrifying emotion Kiyoomi never thought he’d ever get to experience, but it also means soft forehead kisses and sleepy snuggles, warm embraces and sweet words. Being with Miya Atsumu meant being allowed inside the silver box, meant walking around with every little thing he’d tried so hard to hide, meant learning how to deal with so many different Miya Atsumus, meant loving every single one of them.

It’s hard, this whole thing – but they manage.

It’s hard, but they continue to do what they do best. They’re Kiyoomi and Atsumu, and Kiyoomi and Atsumu when together.

When he’s jolted awake by a loud _oh, fuck of all fucks_ , Kiyoomi can’t help but think that he refuses to be held accountable for the headache and the nausea, for the dizziness and blurry vision. What he _does_ take responsibility for (and really proudly at that) are the soft, reddish marks scattered all across his neck and collarbones, the bite marks that are almost unnoticeable if one’s not actively looking for them.

Kiyoomi is always looking.

“Did I do something weird last night?” Atsumu asks with a groan, resting his chin on Kiyoomi’s chest, yawning and blinking away the sleepy haze.

_Yes_ , he wants to say.

_No_ , he wants to say.

“Maybe?” is what he says.

Atsumu groans again before letting his body fall limp to the mattress, eyes closed and a soft smile on his face. _I love you_ , his fingers trace over his skin. _I love you_ , Kiyoomi whispers back. _Thank you for choosing me_ , his fingers play with Kiyoomi’s hair. There are some emotions, he’s come to learn, that they can’t find the words for. There’s the fondness of their shared glances, the softness of their touch in these lazy mornings, the low whispers with hoarse voices, saying _I love you_ over and over again and the way his whole body bursts into flames when Atsumu smiles for the first time after waking up, the first ray of sunshine on his day, Kiyoomi thinks. There’s the swift movement of their bodies, a dance they’ve mastered in these twenty months they’ve been sharing a bed, in these twenty months they’ve been waking up in each other’s arms and to a soft _good morning, I love you._

It’s only been twenty months, but it’s impossible for Kiyoomi to think about a life that doesn’t have Miya Atsumu first thing in the morning, with his childish grin and messy hair. It’s impossible for him to think about holding something other than him before falling asleep, kissing his knuckles and his neck, making him squirm and complain that _you’re teasing me again_ only to burst into giggles when Kiyoomi refused to stop until they were both laughing and panting because _I love you_.

And with Miya Atsumu being Miya Atsumu, there is absolutely no way it could’ve been any different.

**Author's Note:**

> you're free to come yell at/with me on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/aaIphard) (´꒳`)


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